


Why Do You Run?

by RetconRenegade



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Badass Mikasa, Gen, Multi, Murder, Slight Gore TW, violence tw, we love the takedown of a corrupt government official
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetconRenegade/pseuds/RetconRenegade
Summary: No, I don’t wanna battle from beginning to endI don’t want a cycle of recycled revengeI don’t want to follow Death and all of his friends---Mikasa doesn't know how this started, or how it will end.





	Why Do You Run?

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post an ongoing playlist for this fic on my writing tumblr, novembersdozen.
> 
> But for the first chapter, I'll give you Black Sun by Death Cab For Cutie.

Chapter One: Follow Death, and All His Friends

Her occupation was ironic. 

She stood, face stoic, dressed unassumingly apart from her red scarf. Blood-red, if you will. The situation would have been fairly normal if she wasn't with two dead bodies. Their house was homely enough; the average place for a couple of their age. Nothing special, which was good. It made it all the easier. 

Looking down at them, it would be wrong to say that she felt nothing. Something was definitely felt, but it wasn't guilt. Or remorse. Or sadness, empathy, or sympathy. There was not a massive range of emotions that she felt as of late. It came with the job. 

Blood seeped from many a crevice or gash, collecting in little puddles on their wood floor, flowing slowly to connect, almost like a system of nerves or veins. Funny, considering they weren't alive. She could dispose of the bodies easily; the bloodstains could be mistaken for anything else just as easily, as long as nobody smelled it. Unfortunately they’d put up a fight and so the killing was far from clean. 

She could spray scent or disinfectant over the stains, and by the time anyone noticed that the couple had disappeared, she'd be long gone. 

And what had they done to deserve this? 

She had no idea. 

It wasn't her place to know, or to judge the reasons why these people had to die. 

She just got the job done. 

Dropping the knife, she turned from the bodies and walked straight out of their house. No closing the door, no looking back - only looking forward to her next assignment. 

How many times had she done this? Slaying the apparent guilty for a few pieces of silver? The number was too many to count. She shook her head slightly as she turned left, descending into an alleyway, dark and damp, but all the familiar. 

Next was to pack what few belongings she had into a bag and leave her lodgings. She’d be notified where to move to next, but for the moment, she just had to leave. Maybe she’d go down south to the coast and get some sun. It wasn’t exactly a well-deserved holiday, but even people like her needed some vitamin D and some rest. 

She yawned as discreetly as she could as she put her leather gloves on, barely opening her mouth, lest she made a sound. The first time she’d come through this place - God, that was so long ago - she made the mistake of rustling some leaves as she walked. A group of roughs made the mistake of jumping her.

Killing them was no mistake. If you don’t fight, you don’t live. And they didn’t fight nearly as hard enough as they should have. 

“Hey there.”

Within a second she had turned to the owner of the deep voice that spoke, stepped forward, and put a knife to his throat. Good thing she packed a spare in her jacket pocket.

“What do you want?” The familiar words came instinctively, her automatic response for scenarios such as these. They deflected the issue at hand back to the instigator, usually preventing them from finding anything out about her.

The man smiled haughtily and she pressed harder on the knife. Any moment now she was bound to draw blood. Wouldn’t be laughing then, would he? She’d seen a victim try and all they did was gargle in a sad, infantile manner until the life drained out of them. 

She looked up into his small brown eyes which peered back at her, unblinking, unfaltering despite the blade tickling at his Adam’s apple. 

Slowly he removed his hands from his pockets and held them up, his long fingers partially blocking out the sunlight.

“Got any pennies to spare?”

“No. Now leave.”

He chuckled. Deep, hearty, incredulous. His Adam’s apple danced upon the blade.

“Alright. I’m sorry I bothered you.” He backed away from her knife, eyebrows raised so high they almost met his side-swept fringe. 

She stared at him.

He dropped his arms and sighed, rolling his eyes before turning around walking away, and in a couple of seconds, he was gone. 

Strange. Yes, she had encountered many a weird person on her travels, but not many people were as brazen as to confront her for a few coins. If anyone were to mug her, it would never be for such a small denomination. A few coppers? What would that purchase? A slightly stale bread roll from a generous merchant? More like a mouldy apple if he were lucky. 

She craned her neck to confirm his departure, and then carried on down the alley. Eyebrows furrowed; the actions of the man continued to slightly confuse her. Why didn’t he fight? Granted, she wouldn't have minded if more amateur robbers adopted his behaviour. That would mean she would have maimed and killed a fair few fewer people. At the memory of a particular kid, she chuckled silently. Poor scrawny child couldn’t have been more than nine at the time and his knife couldn’t even cut butter. Despite all his waving and writhing he did not manage to make even a scratch on her skin. 

She let him go.

It would be dishonourable to kill such a disadvantaged enemy. It would be _wrong_ to kill a child. Maybe that’s what set her apart from the men that set out to harm her family all those years ago. While they had no qualms murdering an eight-year-old child alongside her parents, she would never see the day when she could allow herself to do that.

As she exited the alley the setting sun shone red on her face, almost the same hue as her scarf and the blood underneath her fingernails. She scratched at her nails, suddenly itching to wash them. Eugh. She hadn’t met such difficult people in a good while. Obviously it made her job harder, but it was relieving to see some people that still had some damn resolve. They knew it: if you don’t fight, you don’t survive. 

Passing the now-empty market signified that she was nearing the inn. The notorious cold breezes of Quinta District caused her scarf to billow as she continued up the hill, the sun soon to be but a distant memory, hidden behind the grassy horizons. As a place with an unfavourable climate, Quinta was emptier than ever before, which was beneficial for people like her who would rather stay under the radar, but terrible for business owners. It almost surprised her that there were any running inns for her to stay at, when there were barely any tourist attractions to capitalise on. 

Well, maybe she’d unwittingly created a new one. After the bodies were found, she wouldn’t be surprised if the local government introduced the murder scene as a museum testament to an assassin unreprimanded. “The Quinta Ripper”. No, that was beyond plagiaristic. She had nothing on the underground rampage of Kenny Ackerman. 

The man was obviously a distant relative of hers. Maybe murderous tendencies ran in the blood. No. That would rationalise the continuous persecution of Ackermans, and she wasn’t about to continue that school of thought. Too many of them had been driven to prostitution or petty crime, mercenary work perhaps the pettiest of them all. 

She now neared the inn, a small brown building in the corner of a dead end with wooden window panes and an irregularly shingled roof, emanating a smell of burnt coal and fresh iceburst stone. The total lack of other inns nearby must have brought in business, but that was only if people found it in the first place. Desolation was something she was to get used to. It left entirely too much space for introspection and wandering thoughts, wandering questions from people invading her personal space and right to privacy.

Three times she rapped on the wooden door. In many of her other excursions, the innkeepers had given her a key in a strange act of trust. Not this man. As the wiry gentleman opened the door, the stench of alcohol and low-quality cigars hit her like a rock and she struggled not to cough. He took a moment to take a drag of his cigar and exhaled, obviously doing this wrong, as he descended into a coughing fit. She stepped back a little, attempting to avoid the tar-soaked spittle and his offensive breath. 

“Welcome back, missy.” He squinted at her with his sunken eyes. “You know, you look a little familiar.” A malevolent grin grew underneath his moustache. “Was it that Ackerman prostitute from the underg—“

“Mr. Weilman. I’m very tired and wish to get some rest—“

“Please, call me Kitz—“

She pushed past him before he got a chance to say anything more lecherous. _I hope your evening is as pleasant as you_ , she thought. “Have a good evening.” She ascended up the stairs and took a left, going all the way down to the end of the corridor to find her door. The landing was dimly it, glowing a fainter yellow in comparison to the bright blue hue of the bar downstairs. 

Retrieving her key, she opened the door to see a note laying on her bed. Locking the door behind her she did not waste a second before washing her hands in the slightly grimy basin. Digging underneath her nails onto the nail beds, she was sure to remove every single trace of blood, once again freeing herself from the risk of incrimination. 

She then dried her hands with a brown cotton rag before picking the letter up. The bland print was of course, familiar, the way he curved the s in her name the same as always. 

Hmm. This letter was early. Usually he gave her at least a week’s break. Ah, well, there’s no rest for the wicked. 

She scanned it, skipping the unnecessary pleasantries to find her next location. 

_Here’s a challenge for you. Stohess District. Nile Dok. He lives in Karanese but spends most of his time stationed in Wall Sina._

For a moment she looked from the letter in thought. Stohess was very far away, on the eastern side of the walls. She could travel all the way through the Krovla and Yarckel Districts, but to get from Yarckel to Stohess she would need to cross through the interior. 

Still, the head of the Military Police? Subordinate only to General Zackley and the Queen? It wasn’t worth it, travelling all that way just to send the nation into disarray. 

Why couldn’t she just catch him in Karanese? It would save her a whole lot of bother and money. It would be one less gate check, too. Even though he had them covered for her, the time spent waiting for the guards to evaluate you and allow you into Wall Sina was far too long. It was expensive as well - it would lengthen her journey by at least a day. And since she’d be staying in Wall Rose at least twice, that was at least two people's lives she might as well have spared. 

Money. It really was the root of all evil, wasn’t it? She just wanted a little money, so she murdered to get it. Those idiotic traffickers probably only did what they did for a few silvers, maybe a single gold coin if their boss was rich and generous. Still, they didn’t get a very good deal, did they? All that hassle and they never got their gold. Oh well. It’s very difficult to spend gold when you’re dead. 

Setting the letter aside, she took off her gloves and stripped down to her smallclothes and folded her previous outfit into her backpack. _Travelling light?_ Another guest had asked her upon arrival. There was absolutely no space for extra baggage with her - only the essentials made it, and even then, they were the barest essentials. Some chalk for her teeth, a jacket, trousers, a shirt, some matches, and her knives. She was now a knife down and made a note to purchase a new one. Didn’t matter where from - the wielder made the knife, not the other way round. Preferably it would be cheap, and a type she hadn’t used before. Yes, a butcher’s cleaver was not the most ideal, but she was running out of options. 

A spare set of underclothes completed her very compact wardrobe. They currently lay on her washing rack, ready to be packed next morning. 

Taking a match from the table beside her bed, she lit it, holding the letter to the flame and watching it descend into embers and nothingness. Even the most furtive of people could be undone simply by being traceable. If Mr. Weilman ever asked around for her in Shiganshina, the locals wouldn’t know whether to be outraged or simply confused. 

She brushed the ashy remains from her bed covers and put the matches away. In the silence of her room she could hear the raucous rabble of the bar downstairs; a bottle breaking, a jaunty shanty being played on the piano. 

They all sounded full of life. Day after day being surrounded by death made her wonder: what exactly was it that made people so alive?


End file.
